Four

The boy steps in, looking at every inch of the house. His gaze lingers on mom's portrait (the largest amongst other frames in the parlor) that hangs on the north wall beside the ceiling-to-floor window. He stops at the room-divider housing decorative figurines. Each figurine means something. The first figuring ever placed there: A naked woman, with nipples pointing like an accusing finger, was collected on the day mum met dad In a figurine shop. But, this is not about them. Yet.

Feelings spark amid the boy's presence. It is love. I feel it at the bottom of my stomach as I lead him to the kitchen. He drops the paper box on the island, hops and perches beside the cake. Hanna had arranged the kitchen to perfection as dad likes it.

Like paddling a bicycle, I start the conversation slowly. I ask his name. Solomon, he says, but i will like to be called Itika. It is my anime name. I increase pace and ask about his family. I find out why his mom left his dad for another man who has also left her, and the name of his dead sister. When I am sure the conversation is on track, I hand over the wheel and he talks about the size of our house (to him, it is strangely modest.) About the estate-people he hates and likes, the people who do drugs, squander money, and hoe around. My eyes remain on his slightly pink lips as he talks until my lips join with it. Just like my dream, the slurping of our lips doesn't feel real. Even when his instinct catches up and he starts kissing back, dipping his tongue in my mouth, fondling my breast, and groping my ass, it still doesn't feel real.

He stops and detaches from me. "Is it me, or does this feel weird? Or is it because we are in the kitchen?"

"It does. It is not the kitchen." I say, adjusting my skirt. "Sorry I kissed you. I don't know what..."

He interjects, "I wouldn't say I wasn't thinking about it too." His chuckle influences the energy clouding the room and causes me to chuckle just as his smile makes me smile.

"Cake?" He reaches over and grabs one cupcake. "Trust me, they are really good."

We made a mistake, it shows in the uncomfortability that follows as the cake melt in my mouth, yet, he doesn't allow it to jar his smile that maintains the mood, but it unmistakably lurks around his demeanor.

"This is so good," I say in between chews.

"I told you, my mom is the best."

The repeated mention of his mom prompts mum's face to momentarily flash in my mind's eye. I miss her.

"She bakes for almost everybody in this estate, if not everybody." He says.

"My mom baked too."

"Really?"

"She was interested in it but she had other things clouding her mind. Her cakes were mostly burnt." I chuckle, but his demeanor suggests he would rather not talk about mum's burnt cake.

"Can you dance?" He moves current from the tip of his left hand through his shoulders to the tip of his right hand.

A sound that can pass as a cough and laugh leave my mouth. "Dance?"

"Yea."

He looks expectant and I know a positive reply will require a show but unfortunately, I can't.

"But I paint."

"Like draw?" He furrows his brows.

"Yea." I shrug.

"Wow! Can I see?"

"Oh, yes. I guess." A knot tightens in my chest. I feel so whenever extra eyes are about to behold my work. I desire to invite him into my room where I have a bunch of unframed portraits in a box, but instead, I lead him to the parlor where mom's frame hangs amongst others. Agape, he looks at the wall dotted with frames and switches his gaze to me and back to the paintings.

"Jesus, this?" he is pointing at mom's portrait. "You drew this? How? This?" He points at a tree with bats hanging down. I nod. A rare thing happens: through his eyes, I observe his view of me change, respect crawls in.

He moves close and scrutinizes it. "Like the details are so crazy. What? Look at those eyes...The crinkles beside... Those freckles...everything is so detailed." He runs his fingers over the nose before asking, "Who is this?"

"My mom."

He looks at the woman, who in reality was fair-skinned, and back to me, trying to collate our features as everybody does.

"We don't look alike? Right?" I say what probably crosses to his mind.

"No... Not that... But yea, you guys don't look alike."

I chuckle. "I know." There is no restrain or knot in my chest as I say, "She is not my mother, but she raised me. So yeah, she is my mother." I even want to tell him how she died but I do not want to peel before him, yet, I feel powerless against losing my flesh around him to bare my soul.

"Oh," he thinks if he forwards the conversation, it might successfully jar the mood. He switches lanes and ask, "Can you paint me?"

I raise a brow.

"I am serious. I can pay if money..."

"How much?" I cut in.

"How much do you charge?"

"Well, I have never charged for it, my dad just supports me."

"You don't what?" he raises his brows and it forms crinkles on his temple. "Supports you how?"

"He pays me after I complete a painting."

"That is dope. How much? Or is that me overstepping?"

"One thousand dollars," I say flatly, expecting not to faze him. He doesn't flinch, as expected. "That is dope. So all these," he widens his hand to cover the rest of the frames that dot the wall. "You drew all these?"

"Yes." I can not keep myself from smiling.

"And got a thousand dollars for each?"

I nod.

"You know, I draw too." He flattens his weak wave, out of habit it seem.

"Really?" I open my face and place a delicate hand atop my chest as if I didn't observe his sketch the day I entered the class.

"They are not as good as yours, and it is cartoons I draw."

"I will like to see." I maintain a smile.

"Sure." His cheek flushes as mine did when the idea of him seeing my work was generated.

"But Jesus!" He continues admiring mum's painting again. "I don't even know how to praise it. It is... It is amazing. You are amazing!"

I fail at shielding my blush. "Thank you. It is enough biko, before my cheeks start paining me."

"Truth is you don't look like a girl that will soil her hands in paint."

"Looks can be deceiving. But what type of girl do I look like?"

He raises his head as though to ponder even though he doesn't need to. "Like a girl that will be engrossed with the Kardashians."

I shrug. "Looks can be deceiving."

"I can see that now."

We share a comfortable silence.

"I need more of that cake," I say and start walking to the kitchen but he grabs my hand and pulls me to project himself ahead. I reach for his arm but he dodges my grip and increases his pace to remain ahead of me.

D E S I R E S